


Which One It Is

by Shutka



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 12:59:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6330187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shutka/pseuds/Shutka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boy is the one surprising piece of loot there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Which One It Is

The boy is the one surprising piece of loot there. Sixteen or thereabout, tall and skinny as a beanpole, wearing irons that look like they'd slide right off his bony wrists and ankles if his overlarge hands and feet weren't in the way. His blue eyes shine on his grimy face when he stares at Flint's men, unafraid. There's a strange quality about him Flint can't place.

"Get these off him," he orders before thinking it all over, and at that moment it's already decided that the boy won't stay here and that the captain of the prize won't live to see his ship released.

"Stretch them out now, there's a good lad," Gates kneels down to do the job, even though the order wasn't directed at him. The boy doesn't relax, doesn't even react for an instant, and then he thrusts his wrists forward so quickly the irons jangle. Shortly he'll be free and Gates will take care of him without being told, so Flint has no idea why he lingers.

When it's done the boy unfolds gingerly, inspecting for a moment the rings of scraped skin on his forearms, before looking straight at Flint with expectant confusion and that same unidentifiable quality.

"What's your name then?" Gates asks, and only when the boy's eyes shift to him Flint realizes he was staring at Flint.

"Billy," the boy answers, voice grating like he's been choked recently, though it's hard to make out bruises with the matted hair falling over his shoulders.

"Well, Billy, I’m Mr. Gates, and this here is Captain Flint, and-"

"You'll be leaving with us," Flint orders. Gates would have asked but the boy might have refused, too scared to trust pirates or too beaten down to try and improve his lot, and Flint is not leaving him here no matter what. "You have anything to do before we go?"

He means, pick up your belongings, say your goodbyes. Ships like this the captain's word is law, and no matter how much the crew disagrees they won't dare voice it. It could be the boy has friends.

The boy blinks, once, and then looks at the circle around the main mast where the captain and remaining sailors huddle together, tied up. One moment he's swaying on his feet, all bones sticking out from underneath the rags he's draped in, and the next he shoots out like an alley cat streaking after a mouse. He slams the captain's head into the deck, again and again, grunting, roaring, heaving with effort and malnutrition, until there’s no life left to beat out. No one thinks about putting a stop to it.

When it's over the boy staggers to his feet and wipes the sweat off his brow with the bloody back of a hand, oblivious that he's just painted himself in his tormentor's blood. He looks shocked, and Flint finally figures out what the unidentifiable air about him is - innocence.

Flint has to frog-march him to the Walrus, show his men they won't need to defend against the boy's fury. His shoulders feel thin and fever-hot against Flint's palms, twitching every now and again at the touch. Flint calls for Dr Thatch, considering what other kinds of abuses might have been heaped over the boy, and takes his hands off him as soon as they step onto the Walrus' deck.

Except the boy, it seems, is not out of surprises yet. He turns and grabs Flint by the hands, squeezing and releasing them fitfully like he's been starved for touch.

Flint lets him do as he likes for a few moments before he pulls away from the hold.

He makes sure to keep his distance after that, to let Gates watch over the boy. Flint can't forget himself here, can't afford to both pick up strays and get attached to them. Little by little the boy's covert, awed glances dwindle and then stop, and Flint breathes easier once more. Soon enough the boy stops looking like a skeleton - even if the nickname sticks - and Flint manages to think of him as just another member of the crew.

Until seven years later when he has Billy's fingers, now bigger and stronger but just as warm, clasping his again. Billy's eyes, just as blue and wide and guileless no matter how many he's killed, staring at Flint, imploring.

And Flint knows, with the same certainty that gripped him all those years ago, that it doesn't matter how convenient it would be if Billy had an accident and stopped asking questions. Flint just can't let go.

He squeezes that hand back with all his might.

He feels it slipping.


End file.
